


Silent Vigil

by laughter_now



Series: Silent Vigil [1]
Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughter_now/pseuds/laughter_now
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harvey gets hurt, Mike doesn't quite know how to deal with it. Especially once he finds out that there's something Harvey has been hiding from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Suits. No copyright infringement is intended.

_**Silent Vigil** _

 

The call, when it happens, comes completely out of the blue.  
  
  
Working at a law firm for a couple of years now, Mike has no illusions left that bad things can happen to good people, without any provocation or prompting. A lot of people might even argue that in the grander scheme of things, it's questionable whether or not Harvey counts as _good people_ , but still. Mike knows better. And nothing could have ever prepared him for receiving that call.  
  
  
He doesn't really remember it, either. It's only later that people tell him how his phone rang in the middle of a meeting with Louis and a group of associates, earning him a dozen death glares because he forgot to turn his phone silent _again_. He remembers thinking that he hopes nobody is going to tell Harvey about the incident, because small as it might seem, Harvey isn't going to let him hear the end of that one for weeks, in the office and outside.  
  
  
After that, he doesn't remember much.  
  
  
He doesn't really remember the conversation, or how he nearly ran over Donna on his way out of the building. Neither does he remember getting into a cab, though he thanks his lucky stars that he didn't try to take his bike, because he's pretty damn sure he wouldn't have made it to the hospital in one piece.  
  
  
He does remember the hospital, though. Not in detail, which is probably a good thing because otherwise those memories would have probably haunted him for the rest of his life. But he remembers flashes – pictures, sounds and smells that turn his almost eidetic memory into a curse because he is never going to forget them in his entire life.  
  
  
He remembers a nurse telling him that she couldn't tell him anything.  
  
  
He remembers yelling at the nurse, as if that was going to suddenly change the fact that she didn't know where the hell Harvey was and what had happened to him.  
  
  
He remembers the words _surgery_ and _waiting room_.  
  
  
He remembers a cop trying to explain what happened, but for once his mind lets him down and Mike can't really process much. He understands enough to piece some things together, though. He knows that Harvey had been trying to find a potential witness for the pro bono Jessica had given him for days now. He knows that the witness had vanished, probably because he had a couple of things to hide himself, and he remembers the pressure Jessica had made about getting this one solved fast, and the single-minded determination with which Harvey had been pursuing the case.  
  
  
Now that the cop tries to explain about some neighbors in one of the worse neighborhoods in Queens calling in an anonymous tip about an altercation in an alley, his mind automatically starts connecting the dots.  
  
  
Harvey was looking for his missing witness. Something went wrong. Someone pulled a knife and tried to make it look like a mugging, but was so bad about it that even the cops grew suspicious.  
  
  
Not that it really matters, though.  
  
  
What does matter is that someone fucking stabbed Harvey and left him to die, and had it not been for that anonymous phone call he would have bled out in that alley. And it was only by some stroke of luck that he had made it to the hospital and is in emergency surgery now, and nobody is telling Mike a damn thing about how he is doing.  
  
  
The wait in the waiting room seems endless, even though again Mike only remembers it in flashes. The tiled linoleum floor he must have been staring at for hours, the endless calls through the speakers paging doctors and calling out other faceless people in the hospital, the sound of steps approaching him, high heel-clad feet and long legs coming to a stop right in front of him.  
  
  
He doesn't know how Donna got here, if she followed him from the office or if the hospital called another of Harvey's emergency contact numbers. He doesn't care, either. Donna is here, which the rational part of his mind tells Mike should mean that he's no longer alone, but he doesn't feel like it. He won't feel not alone until someone comes out and tells him that Harvey is going to be all right.  
  
  
Donna must be worried too. Maybe not the same kind of _fucking terrified_ that Mike's feeling right now, but she's close to Harvey too. But somehow Donna manages to achieve what Mike can't and keeps functioning despite the situation. She starts fielding the calls that come in on her cell phone as well as Mike's. Apparently, the whole damn firm knows that something happened because as the hours pass, Jessica calls more than once despite being tied up in an important negotiation, some of the other senior partners check in and ask for news, hell, even Louis calls, and for once Mike doesn't even care whether or not the other lawyer has an ulterior motive for caring about Harvey.  
  
  
He notices the calls, but he doesn't answer the phone when it rings. He doesn't want to talk to anyone right now. He doesn't even talk to Donna, and somehow miraculously she seems to understand that he simply _can't_. Somewhere deep down he's afraid that if he only opens his mouth to speak, he'll start unraveling at the seams and it will be impossible to put him back together.  
  
  
So he just sits there and stares down at the floor, and when Donna leaves and returns with a cup of coffee he takes it from her and holds it between his palms until it gets cold and Donna pries it from his fingers again to pour it away. The action is absolutely senseless, but it gives both of them something to do other than wait and worry, so Mike doesn't question that they repeat it again and again, even though he never even takes a sip of the drink. It takes until the fourth cup of coffee until a voice tears him out of his stupor.  
  
  
"Family of Harvey Specter?"  
  
  
The voice belongs to a doctor who looks far too young to have gone through college and medical school, let alone be allowed to perform surgeries without parental supervision, but that's nothing more than a fleeting thought as Mike all but leaps out of his chair and hurries over towards the young doctor on suspiciously wobbly legs, Donna right behind him. The surgeon introduces himself but Mike forgets his name again as soon as he hears it, unable to process anything until he knows if Harvey is going to be all right or if he…  
  
  
Mike's heart is beating a rapid tattoo against his sternum as he forces himself not to finish that thought. Harvey is going to be all right. There is no other option.  
  
  
He is aware that the doctor is trying to go easy on the medical terms, which somehow assures Mike that maybe despite his age he has done this before. But despite the fact that Mike makes a living out of grasping the smallest details as quickly as he can, it takes a couple of long moments before the doctor's words start to make sense.  
  
  
The knife hit the lung.  
  
  
The doctor keeps on talking about blood loss and transfusions, but all Mike can think about is that someone drove a fucking knife through Harvey's lung, and he feels like he has to throw up.  
  
  
Apparently, there's a dramatic structure to the doctor's speech, because while Mike's mind is still trying to grasp the fact that Harvey's right lung collapsed because someone stabbed a knife through it, the doctor delivers the final blow.  
  
  
  
 _Artificially induced coma._  
  
  
They put Harvey into a coma and have him on a ventilator. The doctor says its to keep the stress off his lungs while they heal, and Mike doesn't doubt that it makes some sort of medical sense, but merely the word _coma_ is enough to make his head spin and his chest clench so tightly that he can barely breathe.  
  
  
Coma. Harvey is in a coma, and a machine is breathing for him. It's the single most terrifying thing Mike has ever heard.  
  
  
Seeing it with his own eyes is indefinitely worse.  
  
  
He's finally allowed to go and see Harvey after he's been settled in the ICU, and though Mike dreads nothing more than seeing someone he cares so damn much about hurt, he needs to see Harvey with his own eyes until he believes that he's still alive. He needs to feel that his skin is still warm and he needs to hear him breathe – artificially or not – to be able to believe that there is hope somewhere in this.  
  
  
He didn't think it was going to hurt so much to step into Harvey's room and see him lying on that bed.  
  
  
A thin sheet is covering Harvey up to his waist, and the gray hospital gown that is visible above the sheet makes his skin appear pale and cold. Wires are sneaking out from underneath the gown, connecting sensors on Harvey's skin with the shocking amount of machinery assembled around his bed, and for a moment Mike stops and tries to take stock of what he's seeing, tries to see _Harvey_ beneath all the equipment. There's an IV running into a canula in the back of his left hand, a clip on his left index finger, those wires that connect to his skin somewhere underneath the hospital gown, drainage canulas with remains of blood and other liquids visible in the clear tube vanishing underneath the bed.  
  
  
There's way too much machinery connected to Harvey to give Mike any peace of mind.  
  
  
Worst of all, though, is the ventilator. It sticks out almost obscenely out of Harvey's mouth, and as Mike steps closer to the bed he notices the chilling mechanical sound of the machine pushing air into Harvey's lungs. It reminds him of the coffee shop he once worked in, and the sounds the coffee machine made that one day when it broke down and uselessly hissed out steam. It's such a weird and disconnected thought that he feels a manic laugh rise up in his throat and bites down hard on his lip in order to stop it from turning into a sob.  
  
  
He's at Harvey's side without knowing how he got there, and almost hesitantly reaches out and runs his fingers over Harvey's forearm. Harvey's skin is warm and Mike finds himself clinging desperately to the other man's limp hand as his legs suddenly start to buckle beneath him and he sinks down in the chair someone pulled up beside the bed.  
  
  
"God, Harvey…"  
  
  
He squeezes the older man's hand again, so tightly that the bones have to be grinding together, but still there is no reaction. Of course there isn't, because the doctors put Harvey into a damn coma, and now Mike doesn't have the slightest idea how to deal with this. There's no precedent. No matter the situation, Harvey is always responsive. Mike might not always get the answers he's looking for when he approaches Harvey with a question, but he always gets some sort of _reaction_ at the very least. Mostly, it even turns out that the lack of verbal answer was a deliberate act to push Mike in the right direction and make him figure something out on his own.  
  
  
Outside of the office, there's even less barriers stopping Harvey from reacting to Mike. It's something Mike has come to rely on over the past years, something that is hugely different from the distant attitude Harvey showed back when Mike still started working for him. Even if it's the middle of the night and Mike starts tossing and turning restlessly, Harvey reacts and pulls him close with a sleepy grumble and holds him until Mike falls back asleep.  
  
  
He just doesn't know how to deal with seeing Harvey not react to anything, seeing him there even though he isn't _there_ , and that thought makes something in Mike's gut clench together painfully. He doesn't know what to do.  
  
  
"I leave you alone for one afternoon, and this is what happens?"  
  
  
He tries levity because it's the only thing his voice won't break over entirely, but it feels hollow and wrong without a snarky comeback. So Mike bites his lip and clutches Harvey's limp hand in his and settles in for the wait.  
  
  
Time, he quickly learns, doesn't really hold any meaning in the ICU. It's never dark in here, never entirely quiet, and while the regular whoosh of the ventilator as well as the occasional beeps and other sounds from the remaining equipment scare the shit out of Mike at first, they turn into an almost hypnotic background noise as the time passes. Once in a while a nurse drops by to check on some readings or adjust the drip of the IV that's going into Harvey's arm, but while the staff seems to accept Mike's presence they don't seem too keen to strike up a conversation with him. Maybe it's because they simply have nothing new or encouraging to say about Harvey's condition.  
  
  
Some time later Donna comes by with a change of clothes and some other things for Mike. It's indescribable to see that she _knew_ Mike wasn't going to leave here anytime soon and wordlessly stepped in to help. For a second, though, there's a flash of irrational worry that Donna went to the condo to get the clothes for him, and Mike remembers that they were late for work this morning and nobody bothered to make the bed or clean up the bedroom, and that they might have left who knows what lying around for her to see.  
  
  
But Donna doesn't say a word about what she may or may not have seen. Seeing Harvey like this shocks her too. It's obvious, no matter how much she tries to keep up a brave front and not let it show on her face. Normally, it would be Mike's first instinct to soothe, to tell her that everything's going to be all right, but he's too terrified himself to even say a word. He thanks Donna for the clothes and then goes back to clinging to Harvey's hand like a lifeline. The next time he looks up, long minutes later, Donna is gone and he is alone with Harvey once again.  
  
  
What follows is the longest night in Mike's life. He doesn't sleep. He drifts, though, and gets lost so deeply in his thoughts that the regular appearances of the nurses startle him, but he doesn't sleep. He doesn't think he could if he tried, even though his body is tired beyond belief. The minutes stretch endlessly and blend into one another, dragging on and on as Mike clings to Harvey's hand and tries to scrounge up hope from somewhere.  
  
  
The first break in the lull comes when it's early morning, and the doctor from last night comes into the room. He mentions something about needing to do an examination and asks Mike to leave. The protest starts to rise in Mike's throat before the doctor even finishes speaking, but no words come out. He's too tired to protest, though the mere thought of leaving Harvey's side is tearing him apart. But somehow, his body is rising from the chair without conscious choice, and after a long moment he reluctantly lets go of Harvey's limp fingers. His body feels sore and aching from the night he spent in the chair, but he doesn't have the energy left to stretch out and do something against it.  
  
  
The doctor looks at him with something like understanding in his eyes.  
  
  
"Give us thirty minutes. Mr. Ross. Go stretch your legs, eat something, then come back and we'll talk."  
  
  
Mike nods numbly and steps out of the room, but he doesn't make it much farther than the small waiting area near the elevators. His legs feel like rubber, and his back aches in protest as he sinks down into yet another uncomfortable plastic chair. He's sitting there for barely a minute when steps approach him, and his heart starts beating faster in his chest as he looks up to find an orderly standing in front of him. Automatically, his head whirls around to look towards the door to Harvey's room, his mind reeling with panicked thoughts.  
  
  
What if something happened, what if Harvey's condition took a turn for the worse and he wasn't there?  
  
  
"Mr. Ross?"  
  
  
Mike is out of the chair in a moment, ready to storm back down the corridor immediately.  
  
  
"What's wrong? Did something happen?"  
  
  
The orderly shakes his head and raises a manila envelope he's holding in his hand.  
  
  
"No. I've been asked to give you this. It's Mr. Specter's personal effects that were taken off him in the ER. You're listed as his next of kin, it's hospital policy to hand over the valuables. The ER personnel also bagged Mr. Specter's clothing, so you should let them know if you want to keep it or throw it out. But there's no rush."  
  
  
Mike nods numbly and blindly signs the form the orderly is holding out to him. Harvey would have a fit if he knew that Mike was signing something without even reading it, but Harvey is not here right now to see. For once, it won't matter.  
  
  
Mike opens the envelope as the orderly steps away and pulls out the items inside one by one. There's Harvey's keys, his cell phone – Mike needs to give that to Donna or someone from the office in case a client tries to reach Harvey – his watch, some change and a couple of bills from his pockets, and the gold-lined pen he always carries around in the inside pocket of his jacket. For a moment, Mike's vision blurs and he has to swallow against the lump in his throat at the sight of this everyday-knickknack in his hands. At any given day over the past years, Mike could have named the contents of Harvey's pockets one by one, but seeing them in his hands and knowing the context why they ended up in this manila envelope makes Mike want to scream and rage until his strength runs out.  
  
  
He doesn't know for how long he's staring at the contents of the envelope, but it's only when he puts everything back that he notices there's something else in the envelope. He reaches in and his fingers close around something small and square. Heart beating fast in his chest, he pulls it out, and he doesn't believe what his fingers are telling him until he has pulled the small box out of the envelope and looks at it with his own eyes.  
  
  
It's a jewelry box.  
  
  
There's no way to mistake that for anything else, and Mike's fingers are shaking slightly as he reaches out to open it.  
  
  
It could be nothing.  
  
  
It could be…Mike has no idea. There could be a simple explanation though, no need to jump to conclusions. Maybe it's a gift from a client, though that would undoubtedly be weird, or a new pair of cufflinks Harvey got for himself. Hell, maybe he is holding on to the box for someone else, or…  
  
  
Mike knows it isn't, though. He knows what's inside that box, but still his heart stutters in his chest as his numb fingers finally manage to open the lid and he sees what's inside.  
  
  
It's a ring.  
  
  
It's silver, or maybe platinum, with a matted surface, and the metal feels cool against Mike's skin as he reaches in and almost reverently runs a single finger over it. He doesn't take it out of the box, but he doesn't need to in order to know what this ring means. The band is wider than it would be for a woman, and while Mike knows little to nothing about ring sizes, he has the feeling that it would probably fit perfectly on his ring finger. Mike's throat closes up at the thought of what this means, and he presses the knuckles of his left hand against his lips to try and keep in the scream that wants to escape.  
  
  
"You owe me, you know?"  
  
  
Mike's head snaps up to find Donna standing in front of him. She's dressed for business, but not even the carefully applied makeup is able to mask the shadows underneath her eyes completely. There's a takeout cup of coffee and a paper bag in her hand which she both places down in front of Mike before she sits down in the chair opposite of him.  
  
  
All Mike is able to come up with is an ineloquent "Huh?"  
  
  
"You owe me, Mike Ross."  
  
  
Mike is aware that both he and Harvey probably owe Donna to the amount of their firstborn and a couple of vital organs for everything she's ever done for them, but he can't quite understand what she's talking about right now.  
  
  
"Why?"  
  
  
A smile crosses her face for a moment, but it looks sad.  
  
  
"Because for all his impeccable sense of style when it comes to cars, furniture or clothing, Harvey has a truly horrible taste in jewelry."  
  
  
Mike's brain is still desperately trying to keep up.  
  
  
"You…you _knew_ about this?" It's a stupid question. There's probably not a whole lot going on in Harvey's life that Donna _doesn't_ know about, and he can't shake the fleeting suspicion that she knew about this ring the moment Harvey first started thinking about it.  
  
  
Donna merely shrugs.  
  
  
"Harvey never clears his browser history. When he told me to copy some client files from his hard drive, it was practically an invitation to get involved in the picking process. And trust me, it was necessary that someone steered him in the right direction. A few well-placed hints later and he was back on the right path. But that's only part of it."  
  
  
Mike has picked up the coffee like the life saver that it is, but he's still holding the small box in his left hand, unwilling to let go of it just yet.  
  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
  
"Well, the right ring is the first step, but when and where to pop the question is even more important."  
  
  
Mike shakes his head. It feels weird how neither of them has spoken out the word, yet there's no doubt at all what they're talking about. A proposal. Harvey wants to _propose_.  
  
  
"But he hasn't even asked me yet."  
  
  
Donna smiles another one of those sad smiles.  
  
  
"I know. He wanted to, though, but I could talk him out of it. Which is another reason why you owe me."  
  
  
And that right there doesn't make any sense at all.  
  
  
"I owe you because you _stopped_ Harvey from proposing? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"  
  
  
"It means that Harvey…let's say he has a flair to take things to a grand scale. Too grand a scale, sometimes. I simply helped rein in his enthusiasm a little because I knew you'd probably feel a little uncomfortable with the big shebang he had set his mind on."  
  
  
Mike swallowed against his suddenly dry throat.  
  
  
"Just how big are we talking?"  
  
  
Donna cocks an eyebrow at him as if daring him to disagree with her assessment.  
  
  
" _Video screen during halftime at a Knicks game_ -big. And it's playoff season."  
  
  
Mike releases a long breath as he tries to envision the scenario, and his stomach gives a funny lurch at the thought. He knows what his answer would have been, but that doesn't change the fact that yeah, it feels too big, too exposed for something as private as a proposal. He forces a smile towards Donna.  
  
  
"You're right. I owe you."  
  
  
"Oh yes, you do. For talking Harvey out of the video screen idea, but even more so for also talking him out of the full page ad in a Sunday edition of the _New York Times_."  
  
  
"He… _what_?"  
  
  
"You know what he's like. I could barely leave him alone while he was thinking up scenarios, just so that he wouldn't actually set anything in motion without telling me about it. Once I talked him out of the fiasco the hot air balloon ride would have undoubtedly turned into he finally got the message. It's not easy to get Harvey to think on a smaller scale, but he caught up to it after a little non too gentle prodding."  
  
  
Mike realizes that he's still shaking his head.  
  
  
"But…for how long has this been going on? Why didn't he just ask?"  
  
  
Donna looks at him for a long moment and there's something in her eyes that Mike can't quite define.  
  
  
"I've known Harvey for a long time now. And for all the cockiness and the self-assurance he projects, grand gestures are his world. It's the more intimate settings he has issues with, and you probably know that better than I do."  
  
  
Mike does, though Harvey changed quite a bit over the time they have been together. But there are still moments when he finds it easier to hide behind the façade of the urbane gentleman instead of owning up to being just an ordinary guy in love. They're still working on that, and up until now Mike thought they were making progress.  
  
  
But this…this is all just too much to take in, especially now, with Harvey in a coma. Mike takes a last look at the ring and then closes the lid of the jewelry box again before he drops it back into the manila envelope. He can't deal with this right now. He takes a long sip of the coffee Donna has brought him, but not even the caffeine is enough to chase away the bone-deep weariness that's engulfing him.  
  
  
Donna watches him for a few moment, but she seems to sense that Mike is no longer willing to talk about the ring and all it possibly entails. And while she normally has no problem practicing Harvey's philosophy of pressing until it hurts in order to get some answers, she is also a master in sensing when it's best to change a topic.  
  
  
"How is he?"  
  
  
Mike shrugs. "The same. The doctor is examining him now. He should be out soon."  
  
  
"Everything at the office is taken care of," Donna says after another moment of silence. "Harvey's cases and appointments have been handed over and rescheduled. Jessica asked me to tell you that you're not expected to come to the office for the rest of the week, and that you can take more time off if…if you need it."  
  
  
She tries to cover it up, but Mike has heard the small slip up, and his brain automatically fills in the blanks.  
  
  
  
 _If Harvey isn't better until then.  
  
  
If he's getting worse._  
  
  
It's something Mike doesn't even want to think about.  
  
  
"I'm coordinating things at the office, so you don't need to worry about that. I'll hold down the fort until Harvey is better."  
  
  
There are no words to describe how relieved Mike feels at those words, because he knows that he simply can't think about anything work related right now. So it's good to know that everything is taken care of and their clients and cases are going to be handled. One less thing to worry about, and with Harvey being in this condition, the last thing he could deal with were any other worries.  
  
  
"Thanks," he finally manages to croak out, his voice suddenly hoarse. He looks up at Donna, unable to fathom how she manages to keep functioning this efficiently at a time like this, when he has to suppress the urge to just run away and hide in a dark corner until everything is better again.  
  
  
"How do you do it?"  
  
  
Donna seems surprised at the question. "How do I do what?"  
  
  
"This." He gestures helplessly with one hand, not really knowing himself what the movement is trying to convey. "How can you keep going like that?"  
  
  
He realizes too late that his words can be understood as an accusation, but apparently Donna has taken a leaf out of Harvey's book and knows more than she lets on about reading people. She simply meets Mike's gaze for a long moment before she shrugs slightly.  
  
  
"For one, I did actually manage to get some sleep last night while you look as if you didn't close your eyes for a single minute. Secondly, I've known Harvey Specter for a long time now, and I know that it's going to take more than an asshole with a knife to stop him permanently. He'd be offended by the mere thought. But most of all…" She stops, and for a second her mask slips and Mike can glimpse the true extend of her worry underneath. "Most of all the mere thought that he's not going to pull through is too terrifying to even think it. He's going to be fine, Mike. There's simply no other way."  
  
  
Her voice is firm and determined, and Mike feels a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth. She's right, as always. Harvey simply has to pull through. There is no alternative.  
  
  
"Thanks, Donna."  
  
  
"Never mind. Just keep whatever gratitude you're feeling alive until Harvey signs off on my vacation time. I know that the two of you are going to be hopelessly lost without me, but I do have an appointment with a Mexican beach that I fully intend to keep. And now drink your coffee and eat the sandwich I brought you. I need to get to the office before Louis screws up that Harrow case. And if you don't call me the second there's news about Harvey, you're going to regret it the day you show back up for work."  
  
  
Mike still doesn't know how she manages to keep focused on anything other than the thought of Harvey, but he's grateful that she's there to keep things going. He can't find any words to express just how thankful he is for everything she's done, so he forces a weak smile and reaches for the sandwich she brought him. Until now, the thought that he could be hungry hasn't even crossed his mind, but the sandwich is gone in under a minute. With the food and the warm coffee setting in his stomach, he feels a little more human again, but not even that quick burst of energy is enough to stop him from shaking entirely as he sees Harvey's doctor leave the room and come heading towards him.  
  
  
He's scared, and he has the suspicion that it's a feeling he's going to have to get used to until Harvey finally opens his eyes again. Mike hates the feeling.  
  
  
The doctor sits down in the chair Donna has vacated – it takes Mike a second to remember that she left, and whether or not he was aware enough of it to say goodbye – and gives Mike a quick rundown of the results of his examination.  
  
  
Apparently, there's progress, although Mike fails to see anything in Harvey's condition that changed for the better over the past night. The doctor tries to reassure him that Harvey's condition is stable, that his lung is beginning to heal, but all Mike can think of is the sight of the ventilator jammed obscenely down Harvey's throat, the hissing sound of the machine breathing for him, the fact that Harvey is kept in a damn coma. The doctor's words are meant to be positive and reassuring, but somehow that intention passes Mike by completely. He nods numbly and pretends not to hear the man's suggestions to go home and get some sleep.

Once they're done and the doctor is called away on another case, Mike walks up and down the corridor a few times to stretch his legs and aching back, then he's back in Harvey's room and at the other man's bedside again.  
  
Harvey still looks the same he did when Mike left. His gown looks a little bunched up on the right side, as if someone pulled it up and didn't pull it down again properly. Carefully, he smoothes down the wrinkles in the fabric, then he slides his hand into Harvey's again and gives it a tight squeeze. There's still no reaction, but he clings to the doctor's earlier words.  
  
 _He's healing.  
  
I know it's hard, but give it some time._  
  
That doctor doesn't know what he's talking about. He can't possibly know just how fucking _hard_ it is to sit beside Harvey's bed and wait for a sign, anything really, no matter how small, to tell him that the man he loves is still in there. It's tearing him apart, and no matter how often or how hard he squeezes Harvey's hand, there's no reaction.  
  
Mike longs to touch, he desperately needs to feel Harvey's warmth against his skin, but with all the tubes and wires connected to the other man's body he doesn't dare to touch him anywhere other than cling to the hand that is blissfully free of any equipment. In the end, he settles his other hand on top of Harvey's head, gently running his fingers through his hair.  
  
The otherwise always so well-coiffed strands are mussed, and Mike just knows that Harvey would have a fit if he knew about that. It's not standing up in all kinds of adorable tufts like it sometimes does in the mornings, during those instances when their nighttime activities didn't give Harvey a chance to wash out the gel before going to bed. Almost unconsciously, Mike starts rubbing a hard, caked strand between his fingers until he can feel the hair loosening. The movement doesn't get rid of the gel – only shampoo could do that – and it leaves Harvey's hair looking matted and Mike's fingers feeling sticky, but it gives him something to do while he sits there and listens to the terrifying _whoosh_ of the ventilator breathing air into Harvey's lungs.  
  
He continues until he can run his fingers through Harvey's hair without getting them tangled in the remnants of the hair gel, and somewhere amidst the almost soothing motion of his fingers brushing against Harvey's scalp, he must have drifted off to sleep because the next thing he knows it's late in the afternoon and he's woken up by a nurse and Harvey's doctor who want him out of the room for another examination.  
  
It becomes a carefully constructed rhythm over the next couple of days, after a serious conversation Harvey's doctor – a man called Walker, as Mike finally learns – forces onto him that night. He can stay with Harvey, but there's certain conditions attached to that. Mike gets the feeling that the hospital probably wouldn't be this lenient if Harvey were an ordinary patient with an ordinary insurance, and he doesn't quite dare to argue any of the conditions stipulated onto him for fear that they're going to keep him out of the room if he disagrees in any way.  
  
He's allowed to stay, but he has to leave whenever the medical personnel tells him to. Doctor Walker makes it abundantly clear that if he's already out of the room during these instances, he'd better use the time to go to the cafeteria to get some food and hydrate before he even thinks about coming back. It's effectively a one hour ban from Harvey's room for twice a day at least, but Walker makes it clear that this is non-negotiable. Mike can stay over night, but he's banned from sleeping in the chair beside the bed, as well. They put up a cot for him in the corner of the room, out of the way of the medical personnel who need regular access to Harvey's bed, and too far away from Harvey for Mike's liking, but one again Mike is left with no choice about it.  
  
And it helps, at least a little, to have some sort of structure to his days here in the ICU. Mike still isn't getting more than a few hours of sleep every night, and each time he's forced to leave Harvey's room he can't shake the gut-lurching fear that something is going to happen while he's gone, but somehow he deals with it. He goes and eat regularly because he knows it's expected of him, and he uses his enforced breaks from Harvey's bedside to call the office and update Donna on Harvey's condition. Not that there's any groundbreaking news to deliver. The doctor says Harvey is healing, that his condition is progressing, but whatever the man is talking about, Mike doesn't really see any evidence of that.  
  
Donna drops by at least once a day, mostly on her way home from the office. There's other visitors, too. Jessica comes by whenever her schedule allows it. Not every day, because with Harvey out of commission everyone at the office is working overtime to handle his cases as well as their own, but Mike knows that on the days that she doesn't drop by he knows Donna is keeping her updated. Other assistants and partners show up for quick visits, as well, Rachel drops by a few times, but what really throws Mike for a loop is that Louis shows up to ask how Harvey is doing in person, and without any trace of an ulterior motive Mike can detect.  
  
Those visits should probably make Mike think, should give him an idea of who at the office really cares about Harvey as a person, but for the most part they pass him by in a blur. He feels like he's running nearly on empty, and his mind is too busy with all kinds of thoughts, so he can't quite bring himself to worry about anyone else and what they might be thinking.  
  
It would be easy to just lose himself in the numbing rhythm of it all – sitting beside Harvey's bedside until someone sends him away, drinking thin hospital coffee and eating tasteless cafeteria food to pass the time until he's allowed back in Harvey's room, drifting off to sleep only when his body can no longer stay awake. Once a day he grabs a shower in the locker room shower that the nurses let him use and changes into the fresh clothes that Donna brings over, but aside from that he stays with Harvey, and barely thinks about anything else.  
  
It's only after the second night spent in hospital that he calls his grandmother. It's not an easy choice to make, because her health has declined over the past couple of months, and the last thing Mike wants is to put any more stress on her. But on the other hand, she has a right to know. She _needs_ to know, especially because this is about Harvey.  
  
Mike still doesn't fully understand how it happened, but Grammy and Harvey turned out to be like two peas in a pod. Back when he and Harvey first got together, Mike worried and stressed for days about what would happen once the two of them finally met. As it turned out, he needn't have worried. Neither his grandmother nor Harvey ever deigned to share the details with him, so all Mike knows is that Grammy sent him out of the room to get some coffee from the nurse's station during that first meeting, and by the time he got back she and Harvey were sitting side by side on the small sofa in her room, an old photo album between them opened to show the brutal evidence of Mike's second grade Halloween costume.  
  
Things progressed from there.  
  
By now, Grammy has adopted Harvey as one of her own, and Mike knows that telling her that he is badly hurt will hit her hard. It's not a conversation he would have over the phone if he could, but the only other alternative would be to leave the hospital. Mike loves his grandmother, he really does, but he can't do that. He can't leave Harvey for any length of time. It's all he can do to step outside the hospital for a few minutes to make the call.  
  
Grammy takes it…well, she's one of those people who learned not to let it show when something hits them hard, but Mike knows her better than that. She does take it hard, and there is shock and concern for both Harvey and Mike in equal measure in her voice as she replies. Mike offers to come see her, and bless that woman there's no words to describe how much he loves her when she tells him in no uncertain terms that the hospital is where he's supposed to be, and to call her the moment there's news.  
  
Mike doesn't mention the ring to his grandmother. He knows she'd be thrilled if they were getting married, but until Harvey is finally out of the woods and actually able to ask him, he's doing his damned best not to even _think_ about it. It's only because of the attack that he even knows about it, that he caught a sneak peek where he shouldn't have, and until Harvey gives him the ring – _if_ he ever does – it's not real. Not yet.  
  
He leaves the jewelry box inside the manila envelope along with Harvey's other possessions, inside his shoulder bag, and tries to pretend that its mere presence isn't burning a hole in his back.  
  
He tries to forget about it, at least, but that doesn't mean that he succeeds. Normally, he has an extremely good control over his brain, but in the numb silence of the ICU it's so incredibly hard to keep his thoughts from circling around and around, and inevitably they keep ending up at the ring far more often than Mike would like to admit. It's hard not to, now that he has seen the ring. The thought that Harvey thought about this, that he _considered_ taking that step in their relationship – that he made up all these admittedly insane ideas on how to pose the question…it's impossible not to think about all that.  
  
It's on the evening of the third day after the fateful phone call that Mike's ironclad decision to forget about the ring finally crumbles completely.  
  
"I've seen the ring, you know?" It feels weird to be talking to this unresponsive version of the Harvey he knows. So far, he hasn't spoken much unless it was to the nurses and the doctors. They told him that patients in an induced coma are generally aware of their surroundings to some degree, but somehow it doesn't feel right to sit here and just…well, just talk. Harvey isn't someone who appreciates mindless chatter, and in all honesty Mike doesn't really know what to say to fill the oppressive silence. If Harvey is aware of what's going on around him, then he knows Mike is here. He'll just have to cling to that thought.  
  
"I won't apologize for it, either. If you wanted to keep it hidden, you shouldn't have carried it around in your suit pocket."  
  
It gets easier now that he has made a start. It almost feels as if the words have been accumulating inside of him for the past days and are now looking for a way to break free. It's almost as if the words don't make the detour through his brain before they spill out of his mouth.  
  
"Donna told me a bit about what you were planning, and I've got to say that I'm glad she can't keep her nose out of your business. It's adorable that you want to put such an effort into all this, I guess, but in case you hadn't noticed I'm more of a low-scale kind of guy."  
  
He squeezes Harvey's limp hand again, and it scares him how quickly has gotten used to the fact that there is no reassuring squeeze back.  
  
"Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is that once you're out of here again, well, maybe not directly once you're out of here because they keep telling me that it's going to take a while for you to be back on your feet, but once you're back to your old self and if you think the time is right…" He shakes his head with a small smile that he feels his face is no longer used to. "I'm stalling, and we both know how much you like that. So, what I'm trying to say is that when you get around to asking – _if_ you get around to asking – my answer is probably going to be yes. Actually, I'm pretty sure it's going to be yes. Just so you know. And if it doesn't feel right to ask me, then that's okay, too. What we've got…it works, right? It's good. _We're_ good. And that's the main thing."  
  
His voice catches on the last part, and he swallows against his suddenly dry throat. It is the main thing, of course. And it's no lie – what they have, their relationship, it works despite all the reasons why it really shouldn't. Only, right now it's not the main thing. Right now, the most important thing is that Harvey pulls through this, and that there is finally some kind of improvement that Mike can actually _see_. No matter how much Doctor Walker keeps assuring him that the surgery went well, that Harvey's lung is healing and that he's showing no signs of infection, because while that sounds reassuring, it's nothing tangible to hold on to.  
  
So he clings to Harvey's hand instead and desperately grasps at the feeling of warm skin against his own that almost makes him able to forget that Harvey's hand is lax in his, completely limp and not returning the gentle pressure.  
  
Still, he holds on. He follows ICU protocol, he leaves the room whenever the doctors or nurses ask him to although it breaks his heart every damn time, he calls Donna at least once a day even though he has the feeling that all his phone calls sound the same and there's never anything new to tell her.  
  
It's on the fourth day that something finally breaks the routine. At least Mike thinks that it's the fourth day. It's a bit hard to tell, days have been blurring into one another ever since Harvey was brought here, and it's been a while since Mike checked what day of the week it was. The date doesn't really matter, though. What does matter is that it's the day when Harvey's doctor sits Mike down after the first examination of the day to tell him that he's content with the progress of Harvey's healing process.  
  
There's a lot of medical babble that Walker obviously tries to dumb down for Mike's benefit, but which gets lost in the white noise his brain is suddenly flooding his brain with, but it doesn't really matter because he gets the most important part of what Walker is trying to say. They're going to wean Harvey off the medication that's keeping him sedated.  
  
They're going to wake him up.  
  
For a few minutes, that's all Mike can think about, and he has to suppress the insane urge to jump up from his chair and storm into Harvey's room as if Walker's words mean that Harvey's awake there right now, and it takes all of his self-restraint to stay seated.  
  
Because of course it's not that easy.  
  
If there was any doubt about it, Walker has just the right words to make Mike understand that it's going to be anything but easy.  
  
They're going to wean him off the medication gradually, so it's going to take a while until he wakes up. Walker says that he's probably going to drift in and out for a while before he's really conscious. Even in his current uproar Mike understands that Walker is trying to tell him that he can't make any real predictions about when Harvey is going to wake up at all. It might be in six to eight hours until he shows the first sign of waking, or it might take another day or two. According to Walker, it all depends on Harvey's body, and in no small part on his will. Which is actually reassuring, because when it gets down to sheer stubbornness, nobody beats Harvey Specter. If that's what it comes down to, Harvey should be awake in time for lunch.  
  
The bad news is that it's going to become a crowded affair. Mike already feels as if they're monitoring everything about Harvey's condition that modern medicine enables them to monitor, but apparently Harvey is going to be under increased scrutiny from now on. Most of the things Walker mentions pass right by Mike, but the bottom line is that once they wean him off the medication, Harvey is going to be in pain. There's the possible side effects of the prolonged sedation to deal with, there's going to be a number of breathing tests they'll put him through before all of that finds its peak in them taking Harvey of the ventilator, which – judged by what Walker is willing to say on the matter – is not exactly an experience anyone would ever wish onto someone else. And all the while, Harvey is going to be drifting in and out of it, awake then asleep again, moving from various degrees of pain to pain-free unconsciousness, and just the thought of that makes Walker's words that he probably won't remember much of it later on seem a lot less like an assurance.  
  
Mike knows Harvey is going to hate every second of it, and he's going to let everyone know about it. The thing is, if he only hurries the hell up with this whole waking up thing, Mike will gladly sit through all the subsequent complaining, through the whining and the tirades. Hell, he's going to apply for the job of Harvey's personal nursemaid and cater to all his whims for as long as it takes, if he only wakes up soon.  
  
Mike has been sitting in this hospital for days with no end in sight, but somehow he has the feeling that now, when there's finally a sign of progress, the rest of the wait is going to seem unbearably longer.  
  
It's obvious that Walker tries to be encouraging, but truth be told Mike still feels as numb as he has been over the past days. Once the doctor's beeper goes off and he excuses himself, Mike stays rooted to his seat for a couple of minutes before he finds the strength to get up and walk down the corridor. He leaves the ICU, takes the elevator down and crosses the lobby until he's standing outside. The sun feels strange on his skin, and as he takes a deep breath of air that hasn't run its way through countless ventilation shafts, he feels almost a little dizzy.  
  
The call to Donna is short, and strangely perfunctory considering that it conveys the good news they've all been waiting for so anxiously. It's beyond doubt that Donna is relieved when he tells her that Harvey should wake up soon, but Mike is still waiting for the moment when _he'll_ finally begin to feel anything.  
  
He calls his grandmother next, but the nurse informs him that she's not in her room, so he leaves a message for when she comes back. He feels a little bad about having told her the bad news in person, but now that there's finally good news to deliver he doesn't have the time to wait until the nurse finds his grandmother and gives her the phone. He just…he can't wait. He still doesn't know what exactly he's feeling right now, but the almost physical sensation of an itch underneath his skin is starting all over his body, something that he knows will only go away if he gets back into ICU and to Harvey's side.  
  
He slips the phone back into his pocket and retraces his steps back into the lobby and towards the elevator. He makes it as far as back into the ICU main corridor when the itching sensation turns into cold sweat breaking out all over his body. There's a restroom a few feet down the corridor and Mike barely manages to stumble through the door and bruise his knees on the cold tiled floor before he collapses in front of the toilet and throws up what little he had for breakfast this morning.  
  
He doesn't know why it's happening now of all times, when for the past four days he would have had every reason to break under the strain of trying to keep upright, but it feels as if his body is no longer under his control. He heaves until there is nothing left to bring up, and for long minutes afterwards he sits slumped against the wall while his body is shaking uncontrollably. He tries to will it to stop, but the shaking continues for so long that he's sure someone's bound to come in and find him like this any moment now. He really doesn't want to face the consequences that are going to be the result of that, so he slowly struggles back into a standing position. His legs still feel a little shaky as he moves over towards the sink to try and wash the taste of vomit out of his mouth and splash cold water on his face.  
  
It doesn't help much, but he hopes it's enough so that he at least no longer looks the way he feels. He doubts that they're going to let him go back and sit with Harvey if he gives the appearance that he's about to keel over any second now.  
  
There's no visible change to Harvey's appearance when Mike sinks back into his chair beside the bed, and the small hopeful part of Mike that was clinging to the impossible chance that Harvey was going to beat all medical probabilities and wake up as soon as they stopped administering the medication falters. All he needs right now is a little more patience, but he feels empty. He simply has no reserves left to draw from. It's all he can do to clasp Harvey's hand tightly between both of his own before he succumbs to the exhaustion.  
  
Tired or not, he's not going to move away from his perch beside the bed. Whenever Harvey is going to wake up, Mike is going to be right here when it happens.  
  
Mike feels like he is the one drifting in and out of consciousness. His concept of time has been shaky while he's been here, but now it's almost impossible to tell how much time passes. The only constant throughout the entire day is that Harvey doesn't wake up. Mike sleeps badly that night, despite his exhaustion. He keeps tossing and turning on the uncomfortable cot, waking up every time a doctor or a nurse comes into the room to check up on Harvey. It happens more frequently now than it did during the previous days, and every time Mike finds himself hoping that this time it means that Harvey is going to wake up, only to have that hope crushed right away every time when the nurse or doctor casts a sympathetic smile at him with a shake of their head.  
  
Whatever Mike expected to happen, it turns out that Doctor Walker knew what he was talking about, despite the fact that nothing changed about Mike's perception that he's far too young to be a doctor yet. Still, he's right. It's a process. A slow, nerve-grinding, exhausting process that leaves Mike feeling like he's tethering on the edge, half a step away from free falling into something that scares him more than anything ever did before in his entire life.  
  
It's in the early morning hours of the next day that Mike first notices Harvey's eyes moving behind his closed lids. It looks almost like he's dreaming, and at the sight Mike latches onto Harvey's hand with no intention to let go until this is over.  
  
His vigil at Harvey's bedside has been mostly silent over the past days, but now it feels like he can't stay quiet for any longer. He keeps calling Harvey's name, murmurs reassurances and all but outright begs Harvey to finally wake up. Each time someone – a nurse or a doctor – comes into the room to check up on Harvey, they try to reassure him. It would feel condescending in any other situation, but right now Mike needs this. He needs to know that he's not imagining things, that Harvey is really drifting closer and closer towards consciousness with each moment that passes.  
  
The staff indulges Mike and gives him the reassurance he needs. They probably know how much he needs them to do it better than Mike does. This is part of their everyday job; they've been through all of this before, and it's Mike who's hopefully going through this for the first and only time in his entire life. He doesn't want to experience anything like this ever again.  
  
Harvey gets more agitated as the day passes. He's not tossing and turning on his bed, far from it, but after days of no movement at all, the change is startling. His eyes continue to move underneath his lids, and occasionally he twitches, or a frown appears on his face as if he's in pain. Mike holds on, one hand clenched in Harvey's and the other resting against his hair, running his fingers through the tangled strands.  
  
Still, it's already past noon when Mike finally gets the sign he has been waiting for for so long. It's just a flutter of Harvey's eyelids at first, small and barely perceptible to anyone who isn't watching him closely. But Mike is watching Harvey as closely as anyone can, and his scrutiny is rewarded a few moments later when Harvey finally – _finally_ – opens his eyes. Not all the way, but far enough for Mike to notice, and to be sure of what he's seeing. Harvey's brown eyes are glazed over and his gaze is anything but focused, but _he opened his eyes_ and that alone makes Mike want to sob in relief.  
  
"Hey," Mike rasps out in a voice that doesn't sound like his own, and he runs the fingers of his free hand against Harvey's scalp tenderly. "It's good to see you."  
  
There is no response. Of course there isn't. Harvey is on a ventilator, and despite the fact that his eyes are open and he appears to be looking at Mike, it's painfully obvious that he's not really there. Mike has always known that he loves the sight of those warm brown eyes, but he hasn't known until now how much he missed seeing them look at him. Distantly, Mike feels relieved that he's not the one connected to all those monitors, because right now his heart is pumping away as if it wants to burst out of his chest.  
  
Harvey's eyes don't remain open for long, though. It lasts only for a couple of seconds, then his lids flutter closed again. It leaves Mike feeling empty, strangely tempted to shake the other man just to see if he'll open his eyes again, but the thought is so ridiculous that he immediately pushes it away again. Harvey is waking up. It's going to take a little longer, but for the first time since that fateful call Mike really believes that this is going to turn out all right.  
  
This time, when he squeezes Harvey's hand, there's a squeeze back in return. It's weak, barely perceptible really, just a minute tightening of Harvey's fingers against his own, but to Mike it feels like the sign he's been waiting for.  
  
He exhales a sound that is half-sigh, half-sob, and clings to Harvey's hand as tightly as he dares.  
  
It continues like that for the rest of the afternoon. Mike called in a nurse right after Harvey opened his eyes for the first time, and from then on there always seems to be someone else in the room with them. Mike knows that the constant supervision is to make sure that Harvey is as comfortable as he can be given the circumstances. They need to make sure that he'll manage without the ventilator, and they need to take him off of that before he comes fully awake and the meds that suppress his choking reflex wear off fully. Doctor Walker explained all that, and it makes sense to Mike. It should even be reassuring to see that Harvey's condition is so thoroughly supervised, but still the constant presence of the medical personnel feels intimidating at the same time. It feels almost as if they are preparing for an emergency instead of Harvey waking up.  
  
Harvey is coming more and more aware as the afternoon passes, and it's obvious that he's in pain. Even after more than two years of being in a relationship with Harvey Specter, it's rare to see him this unguarded, with no mask left in place to hide just how uncomfortable he really is. Even on the rare occasions that Mike has seen Harvey sick, he was either exaggerating things extremely and driving Mike mad with his whining, or he was playing things down and tried to hide how uncomfortable he really was. Seeing him like this, with the pain so obvious on his face and in his eyes during the moments when he has them open, hurts Mike right along because all he can do is sit by and watch it happen.  
  
They don't explain in detail what the breathing tests they put Harvey through consist of, but Mike has the sneaking suspicion that they simply turn off the ventilator and hope that Harvey is going to manage to breathe on his own. He should really check into the legality of that, because he has the sneaking suspicion that turning off the machines and just hoping for the best shouldn't be an allowed medical practice. He doesn't pay any real attention to the exact medical details, though, so maybe there is more to it than that and he simply missed it because he was far too busy clinging to Harvey's hand to care much about anything else.  
  
Either way, Walker seems content with the results of the breathing tests, and late in the afternoon they decide to take Harvey off the ventilator. That's the good news. The bad news is that they kick Mike out while they do it – _no discussions, Mr. Ross_ – and letting go of Harvey's hand is the hardest thing he has done in a long time.  
  
He still leaves, because it's not as if he has any other choice. Once outside Harvey's room, he's extremely surprised to see Donna sitting in the small waiting area at the end of the corridor. He walks over towards her, and though he hasn't done anything but sit around for the entire day, his legs feel strained from holding his weight and he sinks down in a chair facing her.  
  
"Hey," he greets Donna and when she pushes a large takeout cup of coffee his way he has to suppress the sudden urge to engulf her in the most grateful hug she ever experienced. He has no idea how she does it, but she just keeps adding up to the ever-growing list of _reasons why Mike owes Donna_. "For how long have you been here?"  
  
"Just a couple of minutes. They didn't want to let me in but said you'd be out in a moment. What's going on?"  
  
There's an undertone of worry in her voice that she can't hide entirely, and Mike understands. Not being allowed into Harvey's room doesn't exactly sound like the good news she must have expected after Mike's phone call this morning.  
  
"They're taking him off the ventilator. Apparently, it's a private function, no audience allowed."  
  
He takes a deep sip of his coffee and pretends not to notice how Donna's shoulders sag a little in relief.  
  
"Is he awake?"  
  
Mike shakes his head.  
  
"Not really. He's been drifting in and out of it all day, but he's not really aware. But he opened his eyes a few times, and he squeezed my hand. The doctor says he's getting there."  
  
Compared to how things were just a day or two ago, it's a huge improvement, but still it doesn't feel like quite enough for Mike. Not really.  
  
They sit in silence for a few minutes, and Mike does his best to caffeinate as quickly as possible while they wait. When the door to Harvey's room opens, their heads snap up in unison just in time to see Doctor Walker step out of the room and come walking towards them. He greets Donna with a nod and pulls up a chair so that he's facing them both.  
  
"We've taken him off the ventilator, and he managed great. That kind of procedure isn't comfortable, but he's settled now. You can go see him in a few minutes."  
  
Only when he feels himself relax does Mike even notice that he was tense enough to clench his fingers into the paper cup tightly enough to almost crumple it.  
  
"Is he awake?"  
  
Walker shakes his head. "Taking the tube out was a strenuous procedure. He's resting now. We're still giving him additional oxygen through a nasal canula, but it's nowhere near as invasive as the ventilator was and it shouldn't disturb him at all. He needs to get all the rest he can right now, and so should you, Mr. Ross."  
  
Mike frowns at the doctor. "What do you mean?"  
  
There must have been more worry in his voice than Mike intended, because Walker is quick to reassure with a placating gesture of his hands.  
  
"I'm content with Mr. Specter's progress, and without a setback his condition should improve remarkably over the next day or two. But the upcoming night might get a little rough."  
  
Maybe he should understand it, but the lack of sleep is making Mike's brain a little fuzzy.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"We've taken Mr. Specter completely off the pain medication when we pulled him out of the induced coma. Now we need to adjust him to a level of medication that keeps him comfortable and pain free, but one that's not high enough to impair his vital functions in any way. We'll have to inch our way towards the right dosage bit by bit, and I'd prefer to have Mr. Specter awake and coherent before we start. He's not going to be comfortable until then. I know that the past days have been hard on you, Mr. Ross, but the next couple of hours are going to be a lot harder to sit through. Maybe you should go home and get some rest."  
  
Mike shakes his head before the doctor even finishes speaking. "No, I'll stay."  
  
Walker nods. "Okay. Give us a few more minutes to get Mr. Specter settled, than you can come back in."  
  
"Thanks, Doctor."  
  
Walker smiles as he gets up from his chair. "Mr. Specter has pulled through his without a hitch so far. It's reassuring, because this could have been a lot worse. You just need to have a little more patience."  
  
It's such an easy thing to say, but Mike is too exhausted to call the doctor out on his bullshit platitude. He watches as Walker vanishes down the corridor and out of sight, and when a few minutes later two nurses come out of Harvey's room and signal him that it's okay to go back in, he and Donna rise without another word and do exactly that.  
  
The first thing Mike notices is the silence. As scary as the sound of the ventilator breathing air into Harvey's lungs was at first, over the past days it has been the constant soundtrack to Mike's stay in Harvey's room, and its sudden absence seems to echo loudly through the room. The machine itself is standing in one corner of the room, disconnected and silent, but not yet out of reach as if the medical personnel is worried they might still need it after all.  
  
"Well, he does look a lot better."  
  
Mike finds himself nodding at Donna's softly spoken words. He does. It's not that Harvey regained any color to make his skin seem less pale, or that anything else changed about his appearance. But the sight of the ventilator being gone is a huge step already. The clear plastic tube that runs underneath Harvey's nose and vanishes behind his ears is so small it's almost dismissible in comparison, and Mike finds himself taking a huge breath of relief.  
  
He can do this. Harvey is going to be just fine. He only needs a little patience.  
  
Donna stays for maybe half an hour, but they don't speak much during that time. Harvey seems pretty out of it, so fast asleep that he reacts neither to Mike squeezing his hand nor to the fingers carding through his hair. When he shows absolutely no reaction to Donna relating Louis' embarrassing incident of knocking a cup of coffee into a client's lap, ruining a designer dress and his chance at being point in her dealings with the firm all at once, it's obvious that he's out like a light. It's only much later, when Donna has long since left with the promise to come back the next morning, that Harvey stirs on the bed.   
  
The small movement is immediately followed by a moan of pain, and if that sound is any indication for what Doctor Walker meant by this becoming a rough night, Mike just wants it to be over. Seeing Harvey still and lifeless on that bed was a horrible experience, but seeing him in obvious pain is sheer torture. More than once during the night Mike finds himself wishing that he had taken Walker's advice and gone home. But he stays, even though he doesn't get a minute of sleep in between all the medical personnel going in and out of the room and his own increasingly helpless attempts to soothe Harvey through the worst of the pain.  
  
It's worth it, though.  
  
It's worth it because a little after midnight, Harvey wakes up. He opens his eyes and as Mike leans over the bed he looks at him – really _looks_ at him – and rasps out his name. It's more of a whisper, really, hoarse and so low that it's barely there, but Mike hears it loud and clear. Mike is sure that he's grinning like a complete idiot, but before he makes room for the nurses and doctors that have been constantly swarming the room this night, he squeezes Harvey's hand tightly and leans in close to brush his lips against Harvey's in a light kiss.  
  
"I'm here. Try to get some more rest, okay? I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."  
  
It's a long night. Later on, Mike won't remember much about it, and that's probably a good thing. He still won't forget the worst parts of it, though – that time seemed impossibly long during that night, and that Harvey was in pain for most of it.  
  
Harvey wakes to something resembling full coherency at some point in the wee morning hours. There have been moments of wakefulness before, brief flashes that lasted for a minute or two, but during that instance he's actually awake and coherent enough for a brief examination by the doctor on nightshift duty. They get him started on some pain medication once the doctor – not Doctor Walker, because apparently even medical prodigies have to sleep at some point – is done, and the rest of the night is a bit easier after that. Harvey rests. Mike is too wired to sleep, so he goes to get coffee.  
  
Harvey wakes up again a few hours later. He's still in pain, but again he seems a little more coherent, yet another bit better. Doctor Walker is back on duty, and he seems almost chipper as he examines him again and makes further adjustments to Harvey's medication. Ten minutes later, Harvey is out like a light once more, and Mike goes on another coffee run.  
  
They go through what feels like countless repetitions of that very same scenario for the rest of the night, and even if Mike wanted to sleep – and his exhausted body is slowly but surely telling him in no uncertain terms that it won't remain optional in the very near future – he's in that strange wired state of mind where his brain is wide awake and running on overdrive, almost as if it's disconnected from the rest of his body.  
  
Morning comes and passes by, and by the time they're approaching noon, the doctors think they have found a combination of meds and the right dosage to keep Harvey settled as comfortable as possible. The meds most definitely don't keep him asleep anymore, which is something Mike is going to be eternally grateful for. In fact, Harvey is awake now for well over thirty minutes, which is the longest stretch of consciousness ever since he was brought into the hospital.   
  
By now, Mike is so caffeinated he feels a little like Hammy in _Over the Hedge_ , and that particular condition seemed a lot more funny when he and Trevor got stoned and watched the movie. It's a different thing entirely to feel like this himself now, artificially wired and always on the edge of a nervous twitch. He knows that he's going to crash soon, and that it's going to be spectacular once it happens, but he's going to delay that for as long as possible. He's not about to go and close his eyes now that Harvey is finally awake enough to hold a conversation.  
  
Well, _conversation_ is probably the wrong word. Harvey tried to speak earlier, and the results were not exactly encouraging. Apparently, having a tube jammed down your throat for any length of time is a strain for anyone's vocal chords, and much as he'd want to Harvey Specter makes no exception to that rule. He can's really speak yet. What comes out if he tries is a raspy croak, and his earlier attempt at speaking resulted in a coughing fit that really tested the limits of his pain medication.  
  
So now Harvey is sucking down ice chips as if there's some kind of reward for it, and there's a small frown line on his forehead that says all about how much he hates the enforced silence. The doctor reassured them that it's only a temporary problem, and that Harvey's throat will heal a lot faster than most of his other injuries, but Harvey has never been a patient man. Not being able to talk when he wants to is aggravating him, that much is obvious, but he'll just have to tough it out. Mike thinks that after everything he's been through over the past days, Harvey gets off easy with a day or so of enforced silence.  
  
Harvey wouldn't be Harvey though if he allowed a little thing like irritated vocal chords to stop him from communicating. There's a legal pad on the mattress by his hand and a pencil between his fingers, and by now Mike doubts that it's been such a good idea to let Harvey communicate this way. Harvey's penmanship is doubtful on a good day, and that's when he's at full strength and can actually _see_ what he's writing. Deciphering his scrawl right now is as much reading as it's guesswork with a side order of puzzle solving, but Harvey is _awake_ , and in light of that Mike really can't bring himself to complain about anything.  
  
They're alone now, for the first time since Harvey woke up, and slowly but surely Mike starts to feel uncomfortable under the scrutinizing gaze Harvey turned towards him the moment the last departing nurse closed the door behind her. Mike holds up the cup with the ice chips and gives it a slight shake in a desperate attempt to distract Harvey from himself.  
  
"Do you want more ice?"  
  
Harvey shakes his head slightly, and Mike only looks away from his face when he hears the sound of the pencil scratching across the paper.  
  
 _YOU OK?_  
  
Mike forces a smile and squeezes Harvey's forearm. The disadvantage of giving him the pen and paper was that Mike had to let go of Harvey's hand, and he finds that he misses the continuous contact.  
  
"I'm good. I just had too much coffee, and now I'm a little wired."  
  
He tries to keep his voice light and reassuring, but when Harvey lifts a single eyebrow at him he knows that the other man knows him too well to be fooled easily. Again, the pencil scratches across the paper.  
  
 _NICE TRY. YOU LOOK LIKE CRAP_  
  
"That's rich, coming from the guy who's peeing through a tube."  
  
Harvey attempts to glare at him, but the gaze lacks any of its usual force.  
  
 _LOW BLOW_  
  
"Quite literally, yeah." Mike has to chuckle, and after the horror of the past days it feels incredibly good to allow himself the small feeling of levity. Harvey's lips twitch in an answering smile, but before Mike can even think about a way to distract Harvey from talking about him, the pencil is already moving again.  
  
 _I'M SERIOUS. GO HOME. SLEEP. I'M OKAY._  
  
Mike thinks Harvey is still nowhere near okay, but he also knows that Harvey is right – not that he'd ever tell him that right now, because even unable to speak he knows Harvey would find a way to gloat. But Mike needs to get some sleep, and soon, and while he doesn't want to leave Harvey for any length of time, he also doesn't want to show him just how exhausted he really is. If he crashes, he'd prefer to do it out of Harvey's line of sight. It's just still so incredibly hard to tear himself away.  
  
"Tell you what. I'll wait until you're asleep, then I'll go home and get some rest, okay?"  
  
Harvey weighs the words for a few seconds, as if he's considering a serious legal proposal, but then he nods.  
  
 _OK_  
  
It doesn't take long, either. Doctor Walker already mentioned that Harvey would be sleeping a lot over the next couple of days while his body recuperates from the ordeal, and in all honesty Mike is astonished that Harvey managed to stay awake for so long now. Since Harvey is still clutching the pencil, Mike brings a hand up to the top of Harvey's head and gently starts to run his fingers through his hair. Harvey sighs contently and moves his head slightly into the touch. Already, his eyelids are starting to droop, and Mike continues to run his fingers across Harvey's scalp in a soothing motion. It's a bit of an unfair trick, but if it makes Harvey get some more rest, Mike is not going to lose any sleep over it.  
  
He doesn't notice the sound of the pencil scratching across the paper once more, at least not until Harvey opens his eyes again and nods slightly towards the pad. Mike shifts and looks down, and for a second his heart flutters in his chest as he reads the words Harvey scrawled there. With a smile, he turns back and leans in close, so close that their foreheads touch and he can look right into those gorgeous brown eyes.  
  
"I love you, too." He leans in yet another bit closer to press a lingering kiss against Harvey's lips. "Very much so. And now get some sleep."  
  
Harvey nods and closes his eyes, and for a couple of minutes Mike stays like that, his forehead pressed against Harvey's and his fingers tangled in his matted hair. He only moves away when Harvey's breathing has evened out, and even then it's still a struggle to tear himself away from the other man's bedside.  
  
Eventually, he gets up, pushing his chair back as silently as possible. Gently, he takes the pencil out of Harvey's slack fingers and pulls the pad free from under his hand. He puts it onto the nightstand next to the melting cup of ice chips and is already halfway towards the door before he turns around and retraces his steps once more. He picks up the pad again and tears off the top page.  
  
Mike doesn't doubt Harvey's feelings for him in any way. But if there's one thing that working in a law firm has told him, then that it never hurts to have things in writing.  
  
  
  
 _ **The End**  
_


End file.
